by Linda Ladd
“We'll see how helpful you are, my friend. Don't even think about making a run for it or I'll give you over to Misha to play with. He's pissed off as hell about what your wife did to him."
A terrible expression flared in the bound man's eyes, but underneath Dmitri caught the glimmer of hope. A false one, because Reed was going to die as soon as they found the woman and the baby. Dmitri almost felt sorry for the guy, but the truth was inescapable. Reed had only himself to thank for getting into this ugly mess with Vince.
The prow of the jon boat cut through the shimmering water of Current River like the point of an arrow. Long chevron wakes streamed out behind Kate as she motored slowly up a remote stretch of the river. It was calm and beautiful, with giant oaks and sycamores and leafy elms hanging over the shoreline, tranquil and serene with little sense of the gun battle that had echoed downriver not thirty minutes before.
The water was crystal clear, revealing rocks of myriad shapes and sizes lining the bottom and schools of gray fish darting away from the noise of the boat. The lush vegetation reflected in dark green water along both banks, and Kate rode through them, feeling numb and wrung out, unreal, as if she were a painted figure gliding through a Monet painting.
A blue heron suddenly took flight from a half-submerged log and Kate jerked in alarm, trembling from nerves still ragged and scraped raw. The big bird flapped its wings in a slow majestic bank to the right before disappearing over the treeline. Kate tried to shake herself out of her stupor. She gripped the throttle so tightly her knuckles were white and clutched Joey close against her with her left arm. They would come after her. She didn't know why, or when, or how, but these men, these killers, wanted her dead and wouldn't stop until she was.
She shivered all over, then forced herself to think straight because she didn't have time not to. There were other boats at her own boat dock for the killers to board, and very few other boaters hazarded this dangerous stretch of the Current—no one she could turn to for help. It was too swift for good fishing, for the most part completely remote and uninhabited with no hint of civilization, the terrain rough and mountainous. All around her the Ozark National Scenic Riverways stretched for miles, with any and all commercialization against federal law. She could count on no one to protect her.
She tried to think, reason, stop looking behind her, and concentrate on what had to be done. Her goal had to be to find a way back downstream to Van Buren and alert Gus Shelter, the county sheriff. But the killers were behind her, blocking her way, just as they'd been when she fled the cabin. She couldn't risk going downriver by boat without running into them again. Her best bet, her only choice, really, was to hole up and hide until she could think of a way to contact the sheriff's office. She could motor upriver all day until she ran out of gas and encounter no one, and no matter what course she chose it was going to be hard on Joey.
Miraculously he lay quietly curled in the crook of her arm, finally having given up on crying when she'd gotten the pacifier out of the zippered pocket of the sling. He was sucking on it, staring up at the sunny blue sky passing overhead as if fascinated by the puffy white clouds. His face was red and blotchy from bawling so hard. He was so little to be out here, going through this nightmare. She snuggled him closer, kissing the top of his head, trying to decide the best course of action.
She really had just one option. The Picketts’ cabin. It was back off the river, up a hill concealed by the trees. She could probably hide there without being found. John and Betty Pickett were old friends of Pop's, a couple from Kansas City who'd had the place for decades, before the government had bought up all the riverfront land. They wouldn't be down until the end of the month, late May when the smallmouth bass season opened, but their cabin would be hard to find. The men chasing her weren't woodsmen, and they wouldn't know such a place existed. She'd be safe there for awhile, she felt fairly confident of it, at least until she got a grip on her shredded nerves and trembling limbs and could decide what to do next.
The A-frame cabin was not too far away now, and she kept her eyes ahead, peeled for the distinctive grove of cedar trees fronting the Picketts’ place. When she finally rounded the last bend, she motored straight for one of the many creeks that fed the Current. Thank God she knew about the cabin because she didn't know where else she could go.
Relieved, now extremely anxious to get Joey out of the boat and hot sun and into a safe haven, she guided the prow of the boat straight into the bank and underneath the drooping fronds of a pair of low-lying willows that half-hid the creek. She maneuvered the boat as far into the inlet as she could, lifting the prop and cutting the motor.
Silence descended like a dropped drapery. Kate sat still, watching, listening, still so shaken she quivered all over. A robin chirped somewhere in the trees above her with a cheerful, top-of-the-morning trill. Cheet, cheet, cheet. Nature back to normal. No gunshots to send wildlife fleeing from danger. She was the wildlife now, she thought, a sick feeling congealing like cold grease in the pit of her stomach. Joey's low, unhappy whimper brought her back to the job at hand, and she scooped him out of the tight sling.
“It's all right, punkin, I've got you. You're gonna be all right now, you'll see."
God, she hoped that was true. She stood, the boat rocking under her weight, and she steadied herself, then stepped barefoot into ankle-deep water so cold that chill bumps raced up her leg. Suddenly she felt exhausted, now that she was hidden in the foliage, and her muscles seemed to lose their mass, dissolve into flimsy rag-doll padding. She sank to the ground, cross-legged, suppressed emotion clogging the back of her nose and making her eyes burn. She heard herself making strange choking noises against Joey's curls. Strangled, helpless sounds, despair, delayed reaction to the adrenaline still surging through her blood.
In the water beneath her toes she saw the glint of minnows darting through the shallows like silver flashes of light. Normal. As if nothing horrible had happened. Joey started squirming, and Kate realized she was holding him much too tightly, in a veritable death grip. She loosened her hold, her face crumpling, her mind awash with the sheer disbelief of it all. Oh, God, what was she going to do? She didn't have any clothes for him, no blankets, no formula, nothing. She was still dressed in her pajamas, for God's sake, the black silk wet and clinging coldly to her skin. No shoes. No money.
Kate put her hand over her eyes and tried to force reason. These men had something to do with Michael's criminal defense work, that's all it could be. She'd done nothing wrong, never broken the law or associated herself with criminals. Suddenly anger streaked through her, slashing through the paralysis. They were after her husband; it had to be that. He'd gotten into some kind of terrible scrape with the hoods and drug addicts he defended. Her rage soon died and pain filled her heart when she realized Michael could very well be dead. Heartsick, she squeezed her eyes shut and caught her trembling lower lip. If only he'd remained a district attorney none of this would've happened. Instead, he'd surrounded himself with criminals and thugs and brought this horror down on their heads.
She felt so sick for a moment she thought she'd throw up. Her body felt tight and empty as if some giant had jerked her up and twisted her as mercilessly as a pair of soaked socks. Forcing a deep breath, she wearily pushed to her feet. She had to keep on, couldn't let them get Joey. No matter what she had to do, she would protect him from them. She looked down at him and his dark gaze touched her heart, and she felt a hot rush of tears she didn't want or need. She had to get a handle on her nerves, her fears, but then Joey grinned at her, his double dimples deepening underneath his eye. Determination flowed up strong and fast from some gut-deep wellspring inside her, and she jutted her jaw. By God, he'd be all right, both of them would. She'd get them out of this mess somehow, no matter what it took.
The path up the hill wound through thick cedars and undergrowth, a circuitous, steep, rocky ascent. Slipping once or twice and cutting up her toes, she tried to tred on the soft, springy green moss that clung to the slope
. After a quarter of an hour's climb, she made the clearing that led to the house, another five-minute walk that would alert her to anyone approaching the house once she was safely inside the small A-frame cabin. Simple, rustic, the place had a living room, kitchen and a couple of bedrooms. Lots of plate-glass windows overlooked the front, where just a glimpse of the distant river could be viewed from the screened-in front porch. The Picketts had enjoyed the isolation, roughing it with neither phone nor television. An extremely devoted couple, they came down to fish and relax, to meditate, to enjoy each other's company. Thank God they enjoyed creature comforts enough to have a running well and a gasoline-driven generator for electricity.
When she finally reached the house she took a moment to glance down the trail behind her. Just barely through the leaves she could see a shining white strip that was the river, glistening and flashing in the bright morning sunshine. A beautiful May day. A day of death and destruction. Exhausted, she realized her bad knee was aching, the one she'd nearly wrecked at the last Olympic games, the tendons behind it burning as if she might have pulled them loose. She hadn't noticed it until now and she tried her best to ignore it. She could rest here, at least for a little while, maybe an hour, two perhaps, before she pushed on in search of help.
Climbing the battered wooden steps, she walked across the small back porch. A wide deck ran all the way around the house, with dozens of mounted antlers from the deer John Pickett had bagged over countless fall hunting seasons. The screen door opened easily at her touch but squeaked shrilly from want of oil. She rose on her tiptoes and ran her fingers along the nearest ceiling rafter in search of the key. The extreme silence was beginning to unnerve her, and she kept glancing around, afraid she'd see her deadly pursuers surging out of the trees after her and Joey.
Inside it smelled musty, closed up, all the drapes and miniblinds shut for winter, except for one in the kitchen that sent a rack of slanted sun rays across the linoleum floor, the brightness dancing with golden motes set alive when she'd opened the door. She crossed the living room and picked up the odor of stale ashes from the grate of the Shrader wood-burning stove. Two old recliners, brightened by floral chintz slipcovers, flanked the hearth, and an old, navy blue pull-out couch was positioned across from them. A table held a reading lamp, a couple of John D. MacDonald's Travis McGee paperbacks, and Betty's sewing basket with the balls of yarn she used for her colorful afghans.
Humming softly in an attempt to keep Joey content a few minutes longer, Kate entered the bedroom. An ancient brass double bed was set against the interior wall, a spotless, white, old-fashioned chenille bedspread covering the stripped feather mattress. Several of Betty's bright afghans were folded over the ornamental footrail, one in a red-and-green zigzag pattern, the other blue and yellow striped. There was a cane-backed rocker covered with a blue and white star quilt, an oak bookcase with more Travis McGees, and a bedside table with a white Bible on top of it. One small window overlooked a nearby sycamore tree and the trail from the riverbank.
Gently lowering Joey on the bed, Kate watched him kick his little legs for all he was worth and wave his arms as if he were flagging down a taxicab. He was tired of being held, and he worked on the pacifier until it wiggled in his mouth as if alive and trying to get away. She tugged the two feather pillows from underneath the cover and placed one at either side of him. He was too little to turn over by himself yet, but Kate never took chances. He was growing fast, learning fast. According to her baby book, some babies squirmed their way onto their stomachs by five or six weeks. She tucked a finger into the leg of his diaper and found him dry, and once he lay calm and quiet again, she scooped him up and held him close to her breast, taking comfort in his warmth and sweet baby smell.
Sitting down in the rocker, she propped him against her shoulder the way he liked best. He settled down against her, making little slurping sounds on the pacifier, and Kate shut her eyes and tried to relax muscles drawn up into tight balls. She felt relatively safe here, at least for the moment. No one could find this cabin without help, and it'd take the men time to reorganize, especially if any of them had been injured when their boat rammed the rootwad. She couldn't delay long; she had to find some dry clothes, some supplies for the coming trek downstream. No telling how many days it'd take to find her way to Van Buren on foot, unless she got lucky and ran across some road leading out of the woods to a farm or inhabited cabin.
It was likely, too, that a friend of hers would come by the bait shop to see the baby and realize she was missing, and once Gus found that out, as sheriff he'd leave no leaf unturned until he found her. She just had to lie low and keep out of sight until he came looking for them. She'd make it, and so would Joey. She patted his back, her heart softening as he nestled his little face tiredly into her neck. At that moment she vowed on her life that she'd never let anyone hurt him. Never. She'd die first.
Kate sucked in her breath, eyes widening as she realized again that that was exactly the fate her pursuers had in store for her.
Four
IT'S NOT MUCH FARTHER, I tell you, ten, fifteen minutes tops. I swear, it's the only place I can think of that she'd go this far up the river."
Dmitri said nothing, watching the cowardly bastard give up his wife to save his own life, a woman who showed ten times more guts than Reed ever had. He was beneath contempt, undeserving of a man's respect. It was one thing to tell them where she might have gone, but to lead them to her himself! God, what kind of husband would do such a thing? He supposed Reed was out to save his own skin but that wasn't going to happen. Vince wanted him dead, so dead he was going to be.
“Please listen to me, Kavunov,” Reed begged, twisting around in the seat in front of Dmitri, his hands still bound behind him with duct tape. Misha was in front of the small fishing craft, gun resting on his knee, and Yuri sat in the stern, controlling the throttle. Dmitri had left the other two behind to clean up any mess Misha'd made inside the cabin. Reed had to yell his betrayals over the bleat of the motor.
“The cabin's hidden from the river, way up high, with a real good vantage point. She'll see anyone who tries to sneak up on her. She'll take off if she sees you. Trust me on this, Kavunov, I'm telling God's holy truth, so help me. We'll never find her if she spooks and disappears. Let me go up first by myself and explain what's going down. All I need is a few minutes to make her understand and cooperate. You'll lose her if you try to storm the place. I'm telling you, I know Kate like a book. I know the way she thinks. If she sees you coming, you'll never catch her.” He paused, licking blood from the corner of his mouth where Misha had punched him. Dmitri could see wet, shiny blood where the striped sweatshirt clung to his upper arm.
“It'd be better if we killed the motor pretty soon now before we get too close to the cabin. She'll hear us if we don't, and then she'll run if she suspects anything at all. She's smart, I'm telling you."
Kavunov needed no one to tell him the woman was intelligent. Reed, on the other hand, was another matter. He was clearly a fool and obviously considered his captors of the same ilk. Reed wanted time to flee for his life, of course, but his caution did make sense. Dmitri glanced out at the thick, forested banks with endless tangles of undergrowth choked with weeds. If the woman took the baby and hid in the wilds, it could take them days to find her. He was going to have to trust Reed to approach the woman at this cabin he talked about, or at least make him think he did.
Sighing at yet another complication and inwardly chagrined by so many unexpected delays, he set his gaze out over the beautiful blue-green river. It was very peaceful here in the state of Missouri. Strange that he'd never heard of the Ozark Mountains until a few weeks ago. Perhaps he would come back here one day, once this job was done. To fish, perhaps. He did love to fish.
Once Joey was sleeping peacefully in her arms, Kate rose slowly, never having realized how truly resilient infants were. Good God, why wasn't this baby completely traumatized after she'd dragged him around, jounced and jogged him, not to ment
ion the eardrum-shattering blare of gunfire and roaring motor boats. She supposed he was used to the sound of motors, from time spent with her at the bait shop every day, but in any case Joey had been good, wonderful through it all. She just hoped to God neither one of them had to go through anything else so harrowing.
Lowering him gently onto his back, she fluffed the pillows around him, just in case. She smiled, love for him building up until it filled her chest like some kind of soft and fuzzy balloon. Tears rushed to her eyes, and just as quickly she blinked them back. She didn't have time to give in to maudlin thoughts or emotional breakdowns, to worry whether Michael was dead or alive, or worst of all, lapse into the delayed shock that kept nibbling at the edges of her sanity. She had to think coherently and be smart enough to get herself and Joey to safety. That's all she could let herself think about.
She moved to the window that faced the trail leading to the river and raised it an inch or two. She strained her ears for the sound of boats but heard only the distant whisper of the current. She relaxed a little bit more, but not much. Surely the guys in the boat had been injured, perhaps not seriously but enough to seek medical attention. If that were the case, the nearest doctor was in Van Buren, and they'd stick out in that small town like sharks in a motel swimming pool. Maybe Gus would get them before they could get her. But she couldn't rely on that. The big blond, the young guy who'd known her name and Olympic past, might be more resourceful than she expected. He looked like somebody who wouldn't give up easily.
The bedroom closet had sliding wood doors, and she opened one, pleased to see that Betty had left behind plenty of suitable outdoor clothing. Betty was nearing sixty and medium sized but Kate wasn't going to be particular about fit. She grabbed a pair of indigo denim Wrangler jeans and one of John's white T-shirts, as well as a heavy, dark green sweatshirt. Stripping off her robe and silk pajamas, she slipped both shirts over her head, then stepped hurriedly into the pants. They were too big on her but she could make them work with a belt.